The Pleasure of a Singularly Peculiar Acquaintance
by Goldiva
Summary: Henrietta Love is down on her luck. Stripped of her dreams, fortune, and any chance at marriage she may have once possessed, Hettie is forced to swallow any lingering pride and sue for work as a domestic in her Aunt's home on Baker Street. OCXHXW
1. Chapter 1

_Enter Henrietta and Mrs. Hudson_

It was with a heavy heart that Henrietta Love, known as Hettie to her close companions and confidants as few as they numbered, turned onto Baker Street, her suitcase swinging freely in one gloved hand and a wrinkled piece of parchment clenched tightly in the other. A fine mist had settled over London, casting the sky an unpleasant gray and bleaching the streets below of what little color they naturally possessed, turning the world into a neutral soup of banality. The humidity glued any brown strands which had escaped their severe bun unpleasantly to the young woman's face, and it was with great longing and regret that Hettie watched the hansom cabs jiggle past, their passengers safe from the dew permeating the air.

Shaking her head, Hettie strode resolutely forward, trying to forget the unfortunate circumstances which had led her to make this trip, and stopped in front of a gray building much like every other dwelling perched along the cobbles of Baker Street. Slowly and deliberately she ascended the steps, counting to twelve as she reached the top and ran her fingers lightly over the brass numbers set above the dark wood door, proudly pronouncing the digits 221.

Setting her luggage down, Hettie straightened the wool of her coat and smoothed back her hair in an attempt at appearing presentable before taking the simple knocker with slightly shaking fingers and rapping smartly three times. She waited a moment, before repeating the process and standing back a bit, hoping she had been loud enough. A flutter of maroon fabric drew her eyes to the second floor window, whose curtains were shaking gently as a result of recent disturbance. Frowning, Henrietta found herself too preoccupied to notice the door opening until warm arms were wrapped firmly around her waist.

Shocked at first, Hettie struggled for a moment before melting into the familiar scent of her aunt's floral perfume. She once again dropped her things and returned the older woman's embrace, pleased to find her so invigorated, especially as she had written that she had been feeling rather under the weather as of late. The woman finally leaned back to get a better look at Hettie's face and it was apparent by the rapid movement of her lips that she had been talking the entire time. Hettie flushed a bit at the realization but soon shoved such emotions to the backburner as she focused on her aunt's lips.

"It's so good to see you!" Mrs. Hudson cried, placing her warm, wrinkled hands against the skin of the young woman's face. Hettie smiled and nodded, wiping a tear from her aunt's worn cheek.

"You too Aunt Martha," Hettie said, keeping her words clipped and hoping her voice didn't come out too garbled, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. Mrs. Hudson's face looked pained as her niece spoke but she quickly hid her discomfort, disguising it with a dazzling smile.

"Oh, you look awful! Did you walk all the way here?" she asked, gesturing to Hettie's rumpled figure. The young woman bristled, as her aunt was more than aware that a hansom was a greater luxury than she could afford at this point, and Mrs. Hudson appeared instantly apologetic. "Oh, I'm sorry dear, I didn't mean any harm. Now come in! Let's get you settled, shall we?" Mrs. Hudson grabbed her niece around the wrist and pulled her inside, closing the door behind her before guiding her down the simply decorated hall towards the back of the house and Mrs. Hudson's own apartments.

Hettie tugged back a little, feeling overwhelmed at her Aunt's hectic pace, and Mrs. Hudson turned to face the girl, repentant. "I'm sorry, dear girl, I don't mean to rush you, but I'm quite anxious for you to meet the tenants. They're sweet boys, really they are, though Holmes can be a bit of a grouch in the morning." Hettie blanched at the thought of strangers but Mrs. Hudson shot down her mental retreat. "Now we'll have none of your shyness now, dearie, you'll have to get used to them as you'll be working in close quarters. Now come along dear, I'll take you to your room and let you freshen up." Hettie shook her head woefully, keeping her eyes locked on the faded blue carpet as she passed by the stairs, wondering just what it was that she had gotten herself into.


	2. Chapter 2

_Enter Holmes and Watson_

The clock in the wall of 221B had hardly stuck seven o'clock when Mrs. Hudson bustled into the shared apartments of Sherlock Holmes and a Dr. John Watson, a tea tray encumbered by a mountain of scones and other breakfast goodies piled on top of it cradled precariously in her wiry arms. Watson, who had woken only half an hour previous, was startled by her rather sudden appearance, but quickly recovered, assisting her in clearing away some of Holmes's notes from the table so she could be relieved of the hefty tray.

"I brought breakfast," she said breathlessly, smiling up at him, "Everything's fresh, even the jam!" Though Watson normally left matters of perception in the highly capable hands of Holmes, who likely would not get out of bed for an hour at least, he could not help but notice a visible change in the older woman. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright and excited like a child's, and she couldn't stop moving even for a moment, busying herself by fidgeting with the napkins and cutlery. Watson frowned, hooking his thumbs through the belt of his robe and eyeing the woman with unusual shrewdness.

"Mrs. Hudson, are you quite alright? You seem altered," he commented, wondering what could have instigated the change. Mrs. Hudson smiled warmly at him, patting his arm as she moved to pour him some tea.

"I must say I am a trifle better than alright Dr. Watson," she laughed, setting the pot back down on the tray, "My niece is arriving today! You know I haven't seen the girl since before… well, let's just say it's been a long time." He had noticed the awkward break in her speech but blamed it on her giddy state.

"Is she on holiday, then?" he asked, settling into a chair and taking a scone from the steaming pile and liberally applying a selection from Mrs. Hudson's various fruit preserves.

"No, Doctor," she said with a sigh of happiness, "She's coming to live here." Watson couldn't help a small jolt of surprise as he swallowed hard, glancing at his landlady.

"On what basis?" he asked, processing the information. The woman tucked a loose strand of gray hair behind and ear.

"Well, permanently," she said with a smile, patting his arm, "But not to worry Doctor, she's a lovely girl. And she'll be working as a live-in domestic, might help you keep this place in some semblance of order." Watson nodded, more concerned with his flatmate's reaction than his own. Holmes was a very private creature, he didn't take well to most women, considering them frivolous, and it was doubtful this niece of Mrs. Hudson's would be an exception. "I'll bring her up when she gets here, in the mean time have a pleasant morning Doctor Watson."

Watson watched her leave the flat, closing the door firmly behind her, and sighed, smearing another scone and flipping open that day's paper. The headline blared 'The Church House Killer Strikes Again", beneath which was a sketch of the victim, the late Father Brian, with an outraged expression on his face. Watson sighed, wondering how long we had until Lestrade came around, and read on, absorbing every gory detail without relish. At around half-past nine Watson heard Holmes's bedroom door open. Looking up from his book, Watson capped his pen and assessed his friend.

Holmes walked stiffly, dressed as he had been the previous day, plus a few wrinkles here and there, in his sharply tailored suit. His piercing grey eyes, like the blade of a knife, found Watson's across the room as he nodded briefly to him in greeting and headed immediately over to his chemistry set, fiddling with beakers and knobs without so much as a word. Watson sighed and closed his book, setting it on the table beside him and folding his arms.

"You're tea's grown cold," he pointed out, attempting to make contact with this almost mechanical being. Holmes merely gave a small grunt of acknowledgement, continuing to pander about his collection of chemicals and test tubes. Watson tried a different tack, taking the paper back in his hands. "The Church House Killer has struck again, another priest," he offered, hoping to perhaps pique his interest. Again a grunt of confirmation followed by complete disregard as Holmes filled a vial with some sort of semi-cloudy liquid and lit his Bunsen burner.

Watson sighed and stood, deciding to bathe as conversation clearly was not at its most avid, and paused, glancing once again at his nonresponsive companion. "Mrs. Hudson's niece is coming to stay," he said, watching as Holmes's back stiffened a bit.

"I was unaware of Mrs. Hudson possessing any such relations," came his cool, clear voice, the sensation it caused to run through Watson akin to that of gripping a quickly perspiring glass.

"Her sister's daughter," Watson said briefly, "I'm to understand that they have not seen each other for quite some time." Holmes absorbed this and then returned to his experiment, not deigning to respond. Sensing dismissal, Watson left to freshen up, leaving Holmes to his play. When Watson finally returned, dressed in clean, newly pressed clothes, his mustache trimmed to perfection, he was unsurprised to find Holmes's exactly where he had left him, hunched over his work table surrounded by a cloud of smoke.

"I'll open a window, shall I?" Watson said, opening the one closest to Holmes in the hopes of dispelling some of the more putrid vapors. He glanced over at his friend only to find a frown deeply carved into his gaunt face, the dissatisfaction burning evident in his passionate gaze. "Something the matter?"

"It didn't work, Watson," bit out Holmes bitterly, crossing his arms and leaning back contemplatively. "I was so sure this time, but it appears I will have to try something else." Watson frowned, peering over Holmes's bony shoulder at the various concoctions bubbling away.

"And what exactly, may I ask, is it that you're doing?" asked the doctor curiously, tapping a test tube curiously only to have his hand slapped away by Holmes, who softened the action with a rare smile. Watson sighed. "It's for another case isn't it? And you won't enlighten me as to its significance until the very end, will you?" Holmes laughed at patted Watson on the shoulder, appearing like he was about to say something when his eyes glassed over a bit and his dark brows furrowed elegantly in his forehead. Watson watched as the thought consumed him, forcing him to turn back towards the table and resume his feverish work.

Sighing, Watson bid his friend farewell and collected his things. "Just going to make a few house calls!" he said over his shoulder as he left the flat and walked out into the moist London air. Two colds and a broken arm later Watson returned to the flat only to find Holmes seated in a chair broodingly, his knees curled to his chest and a pipe clamped firmly between his thin lips, emitting odorous smoke. Watson noticed a few shattered beakers lying on the counter top, probably broken in a fit of frustration, but found everything else to be in its place as Holmes's odd concoctions bubbled away.

Watson took off his overcoat and hat, hanging them up in the closet as he warily approached the hapless man. Before he could speak Holmes cut him off. "The girl you spoke of earlier arrived," he commented, taking a long, heavy drag of tobacco and releasing it in a puff which curled lazily out of his mouth. "Should be up any minute now." Holmes proved to be, as he so often was, utterly correct for at that exact moment there came a knock at the door from Mrs. Hudson's gentle hand.

Watson quickly moved across the room, opening the door smoothly so those waiting outside could enter. Holmes did not bother to stand as the ladies crossed the threshold, for which he earned a black look from Watson, but as foul a mood as Sherlock was in, the good Doctor was unwilling to place too harsh a judgment on his companion's troubled head. Watson instead found himself quite distracted by the young woman who stood deferentially behind Mrs. Hudson as she curiously scanned the room.

While not exceptionally beautiful, the young woman was indeed particularly well figured, with blond hair that glowed red in certain lights. Her eyes were quite striking, a green so pale they almost appeared colorless, and continuously flitted about the room, rarely making eye contact. Watson decided she must be shy, a fact certainly supported by her extremely conservative dress, even for Victorian standards of modesty.

"Doctor Watson, Mr. Holmes, this is my niece, Henrietta Love," bubbled Mrs. Hudson happily, presenting the young woman as if she were some trophy.

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance," said Watson charmingly, hoping his smile was equally so. Henrietta briefly locked gazes with the good doctor as she took his hand, and he was surprised to find the look in them oddly familiar, as if she were assessing his every move. That was a directness he could only pin on one other person.

"Sherlock Holmes," came a cool voice beside him. Sherlock had stood, the darkness gone from his gaze, or at the very least repressed, as he offered his hand to Henrietta. Watson had to resist the urge not to reprimand his friend, as Holmes was making no secret of his study of her, staring at her with an intensity that could cause a flower to wither. Henrietta took his hand without hesitation and met his probing gaze with her own, a total lack of fear or discomfort on her features.

They stood like that for a good minute, neither looking away as they locked themselves in a battle of wills and Watson had begun to grow embarrassed on their behalf when a loud bang interrupted his thoughts. One of the beakers had abruptly exploded, the cracking boom it issued in the process causing Watson to fall backwards startled and even the unshakable Holmes's to flinch with surprise. Watson noted that Henrietta had not so much as blinked an eye at the event and was about to comment on her fortitude when Holmes, a curious expression on his face, beat him to it.

"Miss Love, are you deaf?" he asked shrewdly, gauging her reaction. Watson heard Mrs. Hudson gasp at the bluntness of his inquiry and watched as Henrietta's pale skin turned red with emotion and her face grew taut and stiff. She nodded once, glaring almost defiantly at Holmes, who continued to study her with that odd expression on his face before nodding curtly to himself. "Then it is fortunate, for you will not be subjected to dear Watson's obnoxious snoring," he said with a hint of warmth, raising an eyebrow when the doctor made a small noise of protest. "I greatly look forward to working with you, Miss Love. Come now, Watson? Do you not think it's time for tea?"


	3. Chapter 3

_In Which Hettie Becomes Better Acquainted With Watson and Holmes_

Hettie woke early, as she had for the past month and a half she had been living in 221 Baker Street, and bathed quickly in cold water, drying off with a stiff towel. Pulling her hair back in a loose bun, she donned her clothes and headed for the kitchen, careful to tiptoe past her aunt's bedroom in the hopes of not waking her. She worked far too hard for a woman her age and it would be healthier if she spent more time off her feet. Securing an apron about her waist Hettie set about preparing breakfast for the tenants, which as of a week ago now included the thespian Alexander Greene, currently renting 221A, as well as Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson.

After opening a window to let in the cool air and placing a loaf of pre-readied bread dough in the oven, Hettie set about cutting a large selection of fruit, glancing up and out the window every so often to look at the steadily lightening sky. A flutter of movement caught her gaze and she looked up sharply, catching sight of a robin perched in the window box. It turned to look at her quizzically, cocking its small head as its throat warbled out what she could only assume was a song.

In a fit of anger she slammed the window, causing the bird to fly away terrified and her hand to slip, gashing her finger. Worried about the food, Hettie quickly pulled away, holding her hand close to her as blood dripped down on the floor. Cursing mentally, she grabbed a towel of darker color and applied pressure, but the bleeding didn't stop. In a panic, she spun sharply on her heel, reaching for a new towel, but her foot slipped in the blood and in less than a blink she was on the floor, like a felled tree.

Moaning, she rubbed the back of her head with her good hand and attempted to stand, getting dizzy in the process and falling headfirst over a chair, which landed on its side on top of her. Kicking the chair off crossly and feeling like she had drank too much of Aunt Martha's punch at Christmas, Hettie stood, swaying severely, and attempted to walk to her aunt's room for assistance. As she crossed through the living room, however, a movement in the corner of her eye gave her pause.

She watched, petrified, as the handle to the front door of 221C slowly opened and the door itself swung inwards. In a flurry of adrenaline, Hettie looked about for a weapon, selecting a heavy candlestick, and turned to face the intruder, prepared to shriek her head off. To her surprise it was Dr. Watson who stood at the door, dressed in his night clothes, a concerned expression on his face. Shocked, she dropped the candlestick, which landed with a thud just inches from her unprotected toes.

"Miss Love, are you quite alright? I heard thumping," asked Watson, his eyes widening as he saw the blood which, at this point, covered her. Hettie trembled there for a moment, an odd sense of relief and embarrassment flowing through her, and burst into hysterical tears.

Watson was quick to come to the young woman's aid, attempting to sooth her distress and assisting her upstairs to his flat to better treat her wounds. After gently probing the back of her head and a few cognitive tests Watson was fairly certainly the head injury had done no serious damage, though he advised her to report any dizziness or fainting to him immediately. The hand, he knew even from a quick glance, would need stitches and be sure to scar, and he told her as much, saddened as he was to blemish her porcelain skin.

As he washed the wound, Watson studied Henrietta, admiring the clarity of her gaze and the softness of her skin, enjoying the contact with the girl as a man more than a physician. It was not often he received the pleasure of her company, for she worked as a ghost, never seen by the inhabitants of the flats. It was not unusual for Watson to wake up and find breakfast already steaming on the table; once when he and Holmes were following up on a lead, they returned home only to find the flat transformed into the very picture of order.

He found her a mystery, a fascinating puzzle, and yet even with, as Holmes often said, his innate skill with the fairer sex, Watson found himself unable to approach her for fear of scaring her away. She watched him closely as he sterilized the needle with alcohol and threaded it with a well practiced eye and handed, his mustache twitching as he concentrated. He turned to her, his eyes very serious, and spoke slowly so his lips would be very easy to read.

"I'm going to have to sew it closed and I would imagine the process with be rather painful. I can offer you a tot of gin to take the edge off if you'd like?" he said, standing to open the liquor cabinet. Holmes's voice stopped him.

"You don't have to talk to her like she's an invalid," Holmes said, his cool voice running like cold water into Watson's ears which burned with embarrassment, "Her ability to lip read is quite advanced." Finally realizing someone else was there, Henrietta turned her head to find Holmes leaning casually against the wall, an ornate box clutched in one hand. "And I am sure we can offer her something a bit stronger than gin." She read his lips, confused, and watched as his thin, elegant figure moved over to his work table and fired up a Bunsen burner.

Watson, who had regained his composure stood, craning over Holmes's shoulder to see what he was concocting, and stiffened with shock. "Holmes, you can't seriously be thinking of giving her that?" he whispered lowly, concern washing his features. Holmes shrugged, holding the clay pipe carefully over the flame.

"Come now Watson, she won't be addicted after just a few puffs, and it will greatly ease her pain. You don't want dear Miss Love to feel pain, do you?" Holmes asked, casting a sharp gray glance over at his companion, waiting for his imminent agreement. Watson finally relented, sighing as he once again took his seat across from Hettie and Holmes came over with the gently smoking pipe. Henrietta's sharpness did not disappoint.

"Is that opium?" she asked, her eyes flicking mistrustfully to Holmes's. Holmes could not resist a small quirk of a smile, for it was the first time she had spoken in their presence for any reason. Her voice was rather loud, as she had no volume control, and monotone, but her diction was remarkable, the words coming out as clearly as Watson had ever heard them.

"Quite right Miss Love, and it will help with the pain. Now if you'll oblige?" he asked, holding the mouth of the stem towards her so that she might grasp it with her lips. She glanced up at Sherlock with a gaze that made Watson shiver and took the end with her lips, pulling the smoke inwards. "Hold it in for a moment, and then release," advised Holmes, taking a casual drag himself. Watson rolled his eyes and watched as Hettie attempted to hold the smoke in before gagging and releasing it in a large puff, coughing. Holmes opened his mouth only slightly, letting the smoke curl lazily from his thin lips as he pulled up a chair next to the pair so that they were sitting in a triangle.

When Hettie regained her breathing she began to feel strange, or rather strangely wonderful. Warmth spread throughout her body, starting at her core and working its way out to her fingers until she felt like jelly. She was startled to notice a pleasurable heat in unmentionable places, but was too woozy to feel embarrassed, releasing a sluggish giggle as she fell back in her seat, drifting into a world of fantasy and delusion.

Holmes released a dry chuckle, taking another long, slow drag on the pipe and smiling languidly. "She certainly went fast," he commented, only then beginning to feel the effects of the drug himself. Watson shook his head, studying the stupidly happy grin on Hettie's blissful face.

"Can I expect you to 'go' as well?" he sighed, feeling like a father with an irresponsible child. Holmes snorted indignantly, the sound emitting harshly from his aquiline nose.

"Please, Watson, it would take more than Miss Love's leftovers to send me into a tizzy." Seeing Watson's stern look he held up a hand and took one final drag. "Ah! Spare the medical theatrics if you will, I'm sure you'll agree that I am a perfectly functional being, and even more so an adult man, capable of making educated decisions for himself," he eyed Watson carefully, a hint of a smile on the corners of his mouth, "Besides, are there not more pressing matters to attend to? For example, the flaying on Miss Love's hand?"

Watson jerked to attention and began work, efficiently and skillfully sewing the wound on Hettie's hand closed as she giggled softly to herself. When he was satisfied the flesh would knit he spread some homemade salve on it to prevent infection and scooped her up in his arms, preparing to move her to the couch. He laid her down on the chaise, making sure to keep her injury from brushing up against anything, and straightened her out, hoping she was comfortable. "Sweet girl," he muttered, brushing a strand of hair from her face before blushing and glancing at Holmes who was watching him closely but said not a word.

"I'll go tell Mrs. Hudson what's happened then, shall I?" he said, more to himself, as he fled 221B and Sherlock's piercing stare. Sherlock waited until his friend had left the flat before walking over to the chaise and looking down at the young woman who lay there. After a time he reached down, his movements jerky, hesitant, as the pads of his fingers brushed across her cheek.

"Sweet girl," he whispered, before turning around, generously refilling his pipe from his stash in the wooden box, and disappearing to his chambers for the rest of the day.


	4. Chapter 4

_In Which Hettie Inadvertently Saves the Day_

Henrietta gently flexed her hand, feeling the taut skin pull against her stitches in warning. She sighed as she looked at the handiwork, admiring the even, skilled stitching, and wondered in passing whether or not Watson had ever done needlepoint. Deciding the image within her mind was far too ridiculous to possibly be realistic she forced herself to return to the task at hand, a thank you cake for 221B.

Mrs. Hudson had been near hysterical when Watson had told her of Hettie's injury a week previous, though he had managed to keep her away from 221B until Hettie was lucid, and up until that day had forced the girl to remain bedridden, despite Watson's assurances that she would be fine as long as she did not over exert her hand. Hettie thought fondly of her neighbors as she stirred the cake batter, but frowned as her pulse leapt abruptly, rumbling like thunder through her veins. She sighed, hoping she wasn't ill again, and put the cake in the oven, settling into a chair to wait it out.

The kitchen was small, but well supplied with copper kettles, pots, and pans galore. The pale pink floral wall paper elegantly accented by white crown molding had seen better days, the rose petals faded far past their prime, but still afforded a sprightly air to the space, making Henrietta feel refreshed. Glancing out at the darkening sky, Hettie turned on a lamp, casting a buttery glow over the counter as she carefully mixed icing. When the cake was done she set it on a tray to cool and went to find Mrs. Hudson to inquire as to what she would prefer to eat at that night's dinner. It came as surprise to Hettie to find her aunt dressed in her best taffeta gown, a string of pearls around her neck and a fan in her hand.

"Oh! I'm sorry dear, it seems I forgot to tell you, my good friend Mrs. Landry is having a party tonight and I'm afraid I must attend. Will you be alright by yourself?" Hettie's face darkened a bit with disappointment but she disguised the useless emotion with a smile, offering to fix her aunt's hair. With great skill and use of pins Hettie formed her aunt's silvered hair into a complex twisted mass, which rested comfortably on the back of her head and attractively framed her neck. Mrs. Hudson gasped, admiring herself in the mirror even as Hettie pulled a few curls free to help emphasize her beautiful blue eyes.

"That's incredible my dear! Absolutely lovely! Where on earth did you learn to do such magic?" asked Mrs. Hudson, gazing at herself excitedly. Hettie could not stop the twist of pain that flashed across her features, memory cutting her like a knife so that she bled raw anguish. Mrs. Hudson's eyes widened with realization and she patted her niece's cheek. "Oh I'm sorry to bring it up dear, it's rather clear you learned it there didn't you?" Hettie brushed her aunt's hand away but softened the action with a stiff smile.

"Shall I hail a hansom?" she asked, moving towards the door. Mrs. Hudson shook her head, stepping past the younger woman with gentle authority.

"No need, I already called one. Thank you for your assistance my dear, I'll be home at a reasonable hour." Her blue eyes crinkled and she reached over, warmly kissing Hettie's forehead. "Don't wait up dear," and with that, she was gone. Hettie sighed sadly, and then remembered her cake, deciding to busy herself in the kitchen rather than mope. It wasn't as though her aunt wasn't allowed to have a social life of her own, reasoned Hettie as she prepared the cake by cutting it in half and leveling it, it was simply unfortunate that Hettie herself did not have one.

Grumbling she put a dollop of icing on a plate, using it to fix the bottom of the cake in place. She then smeared on a middle layer of icing before attaching the lid, smiling to herself as she did so. In a flash she prepared the watered down icing, smearing it smoothly over the cake for the crumb coat, and left the cake to dry, moving to rummage around the cupboard for something to consume. She finally settled on marmalade and saltines, finishing it off with the last of the apples and a small glass of sherry. Pleased with herself, Hettie moved to finish up her cake, applying the top coat and using a knife dipped in warm water to smooth it down. Satisfied, she put the rest of the icing in a pastry bag and proceeded to decorate her creation with flowers and ribbons, and swoops and swirls.

Grinning, she picked up the cake, walking out of her apartment and up towards 221B, but when she reached the door, it soon became quite apparent that there was no one at home. She would not admit to total devastation, for such would be mere theatrics and that was no longer permissible, but she did feel great loneliness as she let herself in to the flat and stuck the cake in the ice box so that it would not melt and be ruined.

Pouting, she was about to leave the flat and simply go to bed early when she caught sight of one of the curtains flapping wildly at a sudden gust of air. With a sigh she crossed the carpet, moving to close and bolt the window when she saw something that gave her pause. She leaned out the window, peering at the familiar bean pole figure of Holmes and the muscular frame of Watson tearing down Baker street, their coats flaring out behind them at their vigorous pace. Curious she quickly ran down stairs, opening the front door and stepping out into the cool night.

It was dark, but Hettie could now with the light provided by the street lamps see that the men were in pursuit of a third figure, cloaked in black. The man they were pursuing was fast approaching, and a sense of danger began to flow through Hettie's veins, pounding like thunder through her skull and screaming at her to go back inside and lock the door. She forced herself to stand her ground as her mind raced, trying to decide what to do as the man came closer and closer and Holmes and Watson fell farther and farther behind.

When the moment of truth came, Hettie reacted instinctively, flying down the steps and running out to meet the dark figure head on. Lacing her fingers and locking her arms together, Hettie used her limbs as a bar, swinging them around and knocking them into the stranger with full force, effectively clothes-lining him. There was a fierce pain in her fingers as her fists smacked into the man's stubbled jaw, sending him sprawling against the pavement, where he lay, groaning, as something clattered out of his hand.

Curious, Hettie reached over and picked up the object, which she then proceeded to hold up to the light and almost drop. In her fingers was a pistol, heavy and deadly, the barrel still hot from use. Stunned she stared at the object, glancing from it to the man and back, too bewildered and shocked to notice Holmes and Watson approach. The men, who had witnessed Hettie's act of reckless bravery, arrived on the scene, breathing heavily.

"Watson, if you would be kind enough to sit on our friend? After a punch like that it's unlikely he'll struggle much, but I'd hate to see him get away," said Holmes breathlessly, to which Watson replied with a grunt and acquiescence, wiping sweat from his forehead and loosening his collar. Holmes then turned to Hettie, who was still holding the gun limply away from her as if it might bite. "Good work Miss Love," he said with a smile, taking the weapon from her wobbly grip, "I dare say you saved us a good bit of running." Hettie nodded numbly and turned, locking her eyes with his, a deep frown etched in her mouth.

"And what exactly, Mr. Holmes, did I do?" she asked in her strange monotone, gesturing to the man pinned to the ground by Watson's athletic bulk. Holmes laughed.

"You, Miss Love, have assisted in the apprehension of the Church Street Killer, guilty of murdering eight men and women of god." Hettie's eyes widened and then abruptly narrowed as she once again examined her neighbors.

"Is that why you're both dressed as clergy men? Isn't that rather dangerous?" she asked, remembering the warm gun, her frown carving deeper into her face. Holmes looked like he wanted to say something frivolous but Watson beat him to the punch.

"Yes, very," he said wearily, rubbing a hand over his face and shifting a bit on top of the murderer who groaned. Glancing back up at Hettie, Watson's eyes widened as he came to Hettie's hand. "Miss Love you've gone and torn out your stitches!" he said, appalled by the blood travelling down her elegant fingers. She blinked, holding her hand up to her face to inspect the damage before shrugging in acknowledgement. Watson sighed.

"Why don't you head upstairs, Miss Love? I'll see you're taken care of once Lestrade gets here in a few minutes, just apply pressure in the meantime," he suggested, waving her off wearily. Hettie blinked, winced in pain, and turned on her heel, scampering back into 221 Baker Street, neither hearing the approaching clatter of police wheels, nor the gruff voices of men taut with fear and apprehension at running around at night with a murderer on the loose.

After the perpetrator was in custody and it was once again only Holmes and Watson alone on the street, the pair turned to each other, their smiles fond as they matched stride back to their flat. Adrenaline pumped as joyously as any drug in their veins, making them grin boyishly without provocation at one another, still riding on the high of the chase. At the door, Holmes turned casually to Watson, as if something just occurred to him.

"Miss Love has been alone for quite a while, has she not?" he pondered, as if to himself. Watson cursed.

"Damn, I'd forgotten!" he hissed, running past Holmes and up the stairs to check on their injured neighbor. Holmes followed at a statelier pace, admiring the strong planes of Watson's back as he cantered up the stairs. He sighed heavily, pausing in the doorway to survey the living room. Watson was facing him, but was concentrating on Hettie's hand, and all Holmes could see of Henrietta was the crown of her silken head. He lifted his hand, examining the fingers that only moments previously had itched to stroke her hair, touch her skin, and frowned, shrugging off the sensation as abruptly as it had come on.

He strode across the room and into his bedroom, fishing through his drawer and collecting his box before returning to the common room and smiling coldly at Henrietta, who met his gaze with her unwavering and clear eyes. She cocked her head in question and he shook the ornate wooden box at her, his fingers sliding gently along the wood.

"Ready for round two Miss Love?"


End file.
